Personal Demon by Kelley Armstrong Page A

Cabal. Is that the message you wish to send?”
    His lips curled and parted, and I knew he was about to say that he’d send any message he damned well pleased, but he caught himself, realizing, perhaps, that such an approach would not be in his best interests.
    “I’m getting Hope out of there,” he said. “That’s all I care about. Unless your father or his people interfere, there won’t be any trouble. I’ll deal with your father later—a civilized discussion about finding a civilized way to free Hope from our debt.”
    “It’s my understanding that this isn’t only about what she owes him. She’s doing this of her own free will, and you might find she’s not so easily dissuaded.”
    “Oh, she’ll be dissuaded—if I have to pick her up and carry her out of Miami.”
    “Ah.”
    “Now where can I find her?”
    I hesitated. While I was reluctant to send Karl tearing down there without knowing why he so urgently wanted Hope out, I knew I wasn’t getting an explanation. Refuse, and he’d still fly to Miami, then make matters worse hunting her down himself.
    “I don’t have the address of the apartment where she’s staying, but the gang owns a club called Easy Rider.”
    As he nodded, I saw Paige, still wearing her coat, in the open doorway, hand raised to knock. She greeted Karl, who exchanged a few impatient pleasantries with her before brushing past.
    “Did I just hear him say he’s taking Hope out of Miami whether she wants to leave or not?”
    “So it would seem, but he was clearly not in the mood to discuss it further and I didn’t want him racing around Miami looking for her.”
    “Should we call her? Warn her?”
    I shook my head. “It would only make matters worse. As angry as Karl is, I trust him to be discreet.” I paused. “But we should probably clear our schedules. Just in case.”

    HOPE: SWEET SIXTEEN

    O ur target was a sweet-sixteen party. When Guy first mentioned it, images of pillow-fighting, PJ-clad teenage girls sprang to mind, and the only profitable crime I could imagine was kidnapping, which would have had me on the phone to Benicio. But as he’d unveiled the plan, it became clear this was no slumber party, but a coming out worthy of a queen.
    I’d heard of such parties in society circles, always described with the contemptuous horror the upper-crust reserved for the excesses of the nouveau riche. There was always a grand historical theme—Roman, medieval, Arabian. Tonight it was Egypt.
    The party was held in a modest hall, one probably used mostly for weddings. Big enough to hold a couple of hundred guests, simple and security-free. This was obviously where they’d tried to cut costs, though it was the only place they had.
    There were two Sphinxes—accuracy be damned—sculpted in ice and flanking the door. The pyramids were papier-mâché, and quickly relocated when guests realized how much dance floor space they took up. The mummies were, one hopes, also papier-mâché. Propped up in caskets, they wore masks and held trays of masks for the guests who wished to partake. Some of the young men and parents did, but few of the girls—there was no sense getting your makeup professionally done only to cover it.
    The belle of the ball was a chubby, newly minted sixteen-year-old dressed as Cleopatra. On a litter borne by four young men in loincloths, she was carried through the crowd to the front, where her parents waited beside a silver bowl stuffed with envelopes. The guest of honor had requested congratulations in cash only, to fund a yearlong world tour before she went to college.
    There was a single gift—a brand-new Jaguar convertible, rolled in through two huge rear doors as Daddy handed the keys to his squealing daughter. Watching the spectacle, I suspected those doors were the real reason her parents had rented the cheap hall. Having their daughter walk outside to see her new car just wouldn’t have had the same impact as this tacky game-show moment.
    The girl